


Your Poetic Bullshit

by hugoslavia



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - Latin America
Genre: Don't Like Don't Read, M/M, Pointless Drabbles, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 13:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14716985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hugoslavia/pseuds/hugoslavia
Summary: Fidel's birthday is coming up. Raúl proposes a gift idea.





	Your Poetic Bullshit

 

On the phone Raúl is just drunk enough to speak his mind and just drunk enough not to care how his mind might sound when spoken aloud. “I have an idea for a birthday gift for you…dearest brother.”

Fidel laughs sharply at the other end of the line, not nearly as drunk as his brother is.  “It’s not like you to tease me with this kind of thing, hmmm?  What’s going on?”

Raúl can picture him leaning back in the leather chair in his library, his boots propped up on his desk.  The desk would have space cleared off for those boots, of course.  His brother would never disrespect his papers or books in any way, no.  If only he treated those boots the same way.

“I want to polish your boots for your birthday.”  He swallows and realizes he’s wrapped the phone cord so tightly around his finger that it’s tingling a bit.  Well, fuck.

Fidel’s laugh comes out more like a bark.  “Are you crazy?  You want to clean the dust of our homeland off my boots all by yourself?”

“I just said I wanted to polish your boots.  The rest of that is your poetic bullshit.”

“I ought to send my doctor over to check up on you.  You know I have people to do that, right?  Highly vetted shoe-shiners.”  Raúl doesn’t mind Fidel laughing at him.  It’s nice to hear him laugh.

“Yeah?  Well, they must not be so great, since your boots look like shit…dearest brother.  Let me do it.”

“That’s a waste of a birthday present.”

“I’m insulted.”  And Raúl is, a bit.  He knows his brother more intimately than he knows, possibly, anyone else.  He’d thought such _service_ would appeal to him.

“You’ll survive the insult. Listen…I’m going to be getting plenty of gifts for my birthday, you know that.  From you, I don’t need anything material.”

“But—”

“Now you’re wasting my time, Raúl.  Change the subject or I’m going to hang—”

Raúl hangs up on him instead, slamming it down harder than is necessary.  There’s a certain amount of satisfaction he gets from knowing he’s probably the only person in the world who can be rude to his brother with impunity. 

 

Something Fidel likes about Raúl, or so he’s always said, is that Raúl will often do what he wants anyway.  So when Raúl shows up in the doorway of his study on the 13th, a carefully put-together shoeshine kit in his hand, his brother chuckles.

“Should’ve known…”

“Should’ve known what?”

“That you’d go ahead with your plan even though I explicitly told you I did _not_ want my boots shined.  You’re impossible.”

“Yes.”  Raúl kisses his brother on his bearded cheek.  “Happy birthday, dearest brother.  Now may I shine your boots?”

Fidel sits down in his black leather chair and pours two glasses of Chivas Regal on the rocks.  “I told you, I’m going to get plenty of gifts for my birthday.  I don’t need anything material from you.”  He nudges one of the glasses towards Raúl.

“You stubborn son of a bitch.  I’m not trying to give you a _gift._ I want to provide you with a _service._ ”  He ignores the whiskey, his brother’s peace offering.

“A service, huh?”

“That’s right.”

Fidel scratches his chin.  “You _are_ good at those.”

It’s not the time to recall what he means.

“…Fine, then.  We’ll do it.  It’s not right for the big brother to torture the little one.”

“That’s right.”  Raúl wiggles his eyebrows at Fidel.  It’s not his birthday, and yet he’s about to get a gift of his own.  “I’m not your enemy.”

“Far from it.  You’re my best friend.”  His brother shifts around in his chair and splays his legs out.  There are those boots, the leather cracked, the cracks full of dust and dried mud.  “And afterward you’ll drink with me.  That’s an order, of course.”

“Of course.”  And Raúl gets down on his knees, willing his adrenaline away from his hands and fingers.  He frowns, then, staring back up at Fidel.  “Untie them yourself.  I’m not taking off your boots for you.  You’re not my kid.”

“No one’s taking off my boots.”

Fidel is grinning.  He’s figured out the game.  Of course, Raúl realizes, he way he thinks, ten plays ahead of everyone else on the gameboard, he’s probably known what was going on the whole time.

“Asshole,” Raúl murmurs, but he’s never been happier to call anyone an asshole in his life.

“Isn’t this what you wanted to give me for my birthday?  The sight of you down on your knees in front of me, close enough so that I can see everything you’re doing and let you know exactly what I’m thinking about it?”

“That’s your poetic bullshit again,” Raúl says.  He has not moved to do anything; looking right into his brother’s eyes is the more appealing idea.  “I just said I wanted to shine your boots for your birthday.”

“Then why haven’t you started yet?”

The silence in the room feels as thick as the air outside.

“You know what?  Let’s change the order of the night,” Raúl says, jumping off.  “I think I’ll have that drink first.”

“I think you’d better.”


End file.
